Beauty, a Hate Story the End

He pressed his thumb gently along the stitches. “Your scars are beautiful, they’re a map to the person you’re becoming.” His eyes zeroed back on me, and his stare vibrated deep in my bones, my need echoing his. A small bit of blood soaked through the new Henley where the bullet had clipped him. We were such a pair, almost totally annihilated by the past days’ events. Anteros had been shot at least twice over the past few days. I’d been shot and stabbed.

But we were still standing.

He tried to get off the bed but I wouldn’t let him, gripping the fabric at his waist. Why was he leaving me? He stopped and bent over the bed, gripping my hair and knotting it.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” he asked. I held the fabric of his shirt between my fingers, pulling myself up to him, back lifting from the mattress. I had a feeling I was going to be in bed for weeks after all this, but right now I didn’t care. I embraced the aching in my bones, the sharpness on my skin. It fueled me. It meant I was alive, meant I’d survived. I swayed to him, smelling him, needing his skin against my cheek, rubbing his neck like a cat.

He knotted my hair tighter. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” I moaned. I wanted to breathe him in, suck in every ounce. His eyes were wildfire and my soul burned for him. There was a little bit of blood below his jaw, where the line met the neck. That sharp, achingly hard jaw—I wanted to lick it.

“Then let go,” he gritted, tightening his hold on my hair. I did as he said, and at the same time, he released his grip. I fell back to the bed with a bounce, watching, waiting. I mourned the loss of him. I needed his touch—holding me, slapping me, bruising me—anything.

He left the room and as much as I wanted to follow him, I obeyed. I looked at my naked body. Dried blood caked the skin like splashes of paint. Where I’d been stabbed was clean, so I assumed the blood wasn’t mine. When I lifted my head, Anteros was prowling over to me. His eyes were smoldering, and there was a knife in his hand. He reminded me of a lethal animal, but even that wasn’t right. He was a demon, something that was going to dig into my heart with its claws.

Slowly he crawled on top of me, and I could feel him with each movement until I was nearly flattened. His black hair tickling my cheek, his breath hot on my lips, chest only touching me with each breath he took. Our eyes locked.

I would die if he didn’t do something soon.

I raised my neck to kiss him but he moved away, a smile on his face. Arrogant. Annoying. Intoxicating. I tried to kiss him again but he held my neck, keeping me still. My body moved anyway, reaching for its other half, its master. I was possessed, out of my mind with lust. Our breath in the air was ether.

His eyes were on me the entire time while he traced an S from my neck to my hip, so light it was like a breeze on my skin, teasing me, not touching the parts I needed it to. I lifted my hips, groaning in aggravation, the noise loaded.

“Fuck me.” My words were a warbled, pleading demand. After everything, I couldn’t have him teasing me. His eyes grew hard, grip tightening around my neck. He roughly pulled my head up, putting my ear to his lips. The heat of his breath was enough to scorch me, to make me clench even tighter.

“You will always be my slave, Frankie. Talking without permission from your master gets you punished.” Then he let me go and with the shock of it, the speed of it, I spun off the bed and fell to the floor. My head banged against the ground.

Before I could get up, he pressed his foot against my chest. It was hard enough to keep me held down, light enough to have me craving more. I lifted my neck up as much as I could to watch him. My breath hitched—his bluegreen gaze was ruthless. He placed the knife under my panties and they rose with the blade, pulling away until the fabric was tight against my skin.

“Don’t fucking move,” he said, eyes locked on me. With his foot still keeping me pinned, he bent over and used his free hand to rub me, work me up, pinch a nipple.

“I’m going to fuck you with this.” He held the knife and panties in limbo, eyes hard on me. “I’m going to stick the handle of this blade inside your cunt.” His voice was low, hoarse, the words buzzing and crackling. It was all I could do to keep my head up.

“Please,” I practically whimpered, but before I even finished, the thin, webby fabric of my lingerie tore. The breeze licked at my sweaty skin.

Anteros hissed. “You are so fucking beautiful.” His free hand ran the length of me, palm spreading around my neck, tightening before releasing and exploring. My collarbone. My breasts. Between my breasts and under the slope. My stomach. My hips. He was extra gentle at the spot where he’d recently sewn

me up, but he didn’t ignore it.

“Oh.” I sucked in a breath when his touch played with the stitching. It was painful, but combined with his touch, it was enlivening. I tried to rise up to meet his hand, desperate for him, but his foot kept me pinned.

“Put your head back,” he instructed, and I did as I was told. The pressure at my stomach released, his foot gone, and Anteros was at my side. The knife handle pushed at my lips. A part of me wanted to watch, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him—he was watching me with such intensity.

His free hand came to cup my jaw just as the handle slid inside me. Corrugated, a bit cold—shattering. My mouth parted on a silent groan, and the hand at my jaw spread along my face, covered my cheek, my jaw. He didn’t stop watching me, devoured my expressions, more interested in how I was reacting than what was going on below.

He slid his thumb into my mouth, over my tongue, and groaned out the words, “I’ve wanted to fuck you with this since the night you cut me.”

Even if he hadn’t been fucking his thumb into my mouth, I would have been without words. I closed my eyes, unable to focus, only to feel.

“I knew you would love this.” His breath ignited tingles in my body that exploded into fireworks. Steamy pants fell from my lips as I arched up. There was something about having the blade so close to my sensitive flesh. It was invigorating and awakening, goose bumps pricked every inch of me.

“Because you are my little dark queen,” he said, twisting the handle up so it hit that wonderful spot. “I know what you need.” My fingers splayed against the cool ground, feeling the polished hardwood. I was becoming nothing but sensation.

I was so close. I reached a hand up, grasping his back, his shoulder, his neck—anything I could. Eyes closed, I relished the way his muscles coiled under my touch, but mourned the barrier of his shirt against my fingertips. It wasn’t just the danger, it was knowing Anteros wouldn’t hurt me. It was utterly trusting him.

Warm, strong lips found mine, and I came undone. That coiled tension in my abdomen released through my body in a heady haze that spread to my toes and fingertips. I arched off the ground and Anteros sucked and dove his tongue into my mouth, the knife handle plunging deeper inside me.

Later Anteros held me against his chest, nose pressed to my hair. One hand lazily palmed my stomach, the other drew little circles on my nipple. We hadn’t bothered moving off the floor—for a while I couldn’t move—but now I just didn’t want to shatter the moment. My head rose and fell with his breaths and I counted lights on the skyscrapers like they were stars.